


Long Live--Part 2

by LaVieEnRose



Series: Long Live [2]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, CF, Chronic Illness, Disability, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Romance, Slow Burn, cystic fibrosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaVieEnRose/pseuds/LaVieEnRose
Summary: No one:Absolutely no one:Absolutely no one who has ever lived:Me: What if I rewrite the entire series but give Justin cystic fibrosisSeason 2.
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Series: Long Live [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015032
Comments: 28
Kudos: 86





	Long Live--Part 2

Justin gets out of the hospital on August 20th, absolutely, in every way possible, all the worse for wear. 

His lung function is trashed and unlikely to get that much better. He's lost twenty-nine pounds. He was in a coma for two weeks while the doctors tried to stop his organs from failing and then had to relearn how to walk and set up the nebulizer and hold a spoon. He has memory loss from the lack of oxygen. He doesn't remember most of the ordeal, just vaguely remembers feeling so awful he hoped he would die. Daphne comes and she reminds him about the prom with Brian, but it's just a blur now. 

Brian is just a blur, because Justin hasn't seen him since May.

**

His mom's condo has stairs. She got a chair installed to bring Justin up and down them, because he can't, absolutely cannot, do stairs right now, but he hates it and he hates his mother for choosing this place and he hates the stairs.

He flops on his bed and watches Daphne and his mother and his sister bring up his bags from the hospital. “You're in a mood,” Daphne says.

He glares at her.

“Aren't you happy to be home?”

“This isn't home,” he says, and he closes his eyes and pictures high ceilings and metal beams and blue light. 

**

He sneaks out the second his mom takes her Xanax and falls asleep. Daphne's waiting for him with her car and an eye roll.

“I'll be fine,” Justin says.

“You're literally _just_ out of the hospital—”

“Yeah, where they released me because _I'll be fine._ ” He knows that's not true. They released him because there's nothing more they can do for him there. But hasn't that always been his definition of 'fine?' “Have you seen him?”

She shrugs, looking at the road. “A few times at Woody's.” God bless her.

“What does he do?”

“Avoids me like I'm a phantom.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“What the fuck do I have to say to him? _Hey, just so you know, my best friend who you completely abandoned still wants to give you a chance to tell him what's going through your fucking stupid head._ ”

“Uh, yeah, that would have been fine, actually.”

“Do it yourself.”

“I will.”

“Yeah, if you can find the oxygen.” 

Justin coughs inopportunely and says nothing.

“You're sure you don't want me to come with you?” she says. 

“No.” Whatever Brian has to say, he won't say it in front of Daphne. “I have to do this myself.”

She lets him out at the center of Liberty Avenue. “If you don't call me in an hour I'm going to assume you're dead,” she says. 

“All right, all right.”

His plan is to head to the diner first, but that's all the way at the end of the block and his chest feels tight just looking that far. Someone walks by smoking and he has to stop and hold onto a lamp post for a minute. His lungs feel like two feather pillows.

“Pull it together,” he says to himself. 

Woody's is closer. Justin has to pause halfway up the four stairs to get in, but he manages, but when he pulls the door open and looks around he's not immediately rewarded with Brian, so that's frustrating. The air in here is thick and hot, and Justin puts his hand against a wall while someone crowds into him to ask if he's okay. And then—

“Justin?”

He knows the voice but can't immediately place it. But then Michael rises up from a nearby booth and comes over and puts his hand on Justin's back. “Hey, hey.”

Justin wheezes into the cuff of his sweatshirt and waves a little.

“Come sit. The fuck are you doing wandering around, my mom will have your fucking ass if she finds out...”

Probably a good thing he didn't go to the diner, in retrospect. 

Michael guides him to the booth and sits down across from him, takes his hands, looks at him in that puppy dog way. “I didn't even know you were out of the hospital.”

Justin pants. “It's a new update.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Here.” He nudges his water across the table, and Justin drinks. “Jesus, you look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I didn't—” 

He waves his hand. “It's fine. I know I look like shit.”

“You're just so skinny.”

“Yeah, month in a coma will do that to you.” But Justin softens. “I'm sorry. I know you came. My mother told me.”

“I could have come more.”

“I probably wasn't great company.”

“You were fine. I'm used to people sleeping when I'm trying to talk to them.”

Justin laughs, which turns into coughing, and when he's able to catch his breath, there he is. Standing in the middle of the bar, staring at Justin like he's just seen a ghost. 

It thrills Justin, a little, to be this powerful. He likes the thought of what hearing that cough must have done to Brian's heart rate. 

It's proof he still cares. 

Michael says, “Well don't just stand there, get the fuck over here.”

Brian takes the smallest possible step forward, like a scared cat, and that's when it hits Justin. Brian is _scared._ He's afraid of him.

It's not enough for Justin to forgive him, but it does bring him a little closer. 

“Come here,” he says, and Brian does.

**

Brian's loft is so much bigger than Justin remembered. He feels comically small, like a dollhouse figure come to life, trying to navigate the real world.

Brian is so big. He stands at the counter and drinks whiskey and can't look at him. 

Justin tries to breathe quietly. 

This isn't what he was expecting. He was expecting Brian to be...disinterested, to blow him off, to have completely gotten bored with Justin being unavailable and unreliable and _dying_ and to have moved on. He was picturing screaming, crying, begging him, other unflattering things he would do to try to get him interested again, because they are at the tragic point where if Justin doesn't have Brian he doesn't know why he bothered to leave the hospital alive.

But Justin has been here for three minutes and he may have lost a lot of things in this hospital trip, his lung function and his body weight and his fucking courage, but he has not lost his ability to read Brian Kinney like a book, and Brian is not disinterested.

Brian is in pain. 

At least Justin's familiar with this. Reassuring people when he's the one who needs to hear it. He says, “I'm okay, y'know.”

Brian doesn't say anything.

“I know I don't look....it's called an exacerbation, it gets worse sometimes. It doesn't mean it won't get better.” 

Brian clears his throat and says, “You're wheezing from walking across the room.”

“I'm okay.”

“You look like a fucking skeleton—” 

“I'll gain it back.”

Brian doesn't say anything.

Time to pull at some heartstrings. “Daphne told me about prom,” Justin says, gently. “I don't really remember.”

Brian looks away.

“But she says she helped you set it up. That you guys strung up lights and had music playing and that you bundled me up to keep me warm.”

Brian laughs darkly. “I don't want to talk about this.”

“Why, because it's the last time you saw me? Because you thought you wouldn't have to see me again?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He has to know. “Was that like....was that you saying goodbye? Did you think I was going to die, so you were giving me something nice—” 

Brian looks at him like he's crazy. “You weren't even that sick then.” 

“I had that infection—” 

He walks a few steps away and stops, his back to Justin. “You didn't have pneumonia, and sepsis, and a fucking tube down your throat to make you breathe and a priest coming to give you your last fucking rites, no, that didn't happen until I got you sick.” 

Oh.

Oh.

“You were fine,” Brian says. “You were getting better. And then I dragged you out of your bed and got you sick.”

Justin puts his head in his hands and tries to breathe around how in love he is.

This is not like when his mother needs him to comfort her about the fact that he's dying.

No one has ever blamed themselves for Justin getting sick before. It's just what Justin _does._ It's _expected._ No one has ever looked at Justin and thought, this boy should not be sick right now.

Until now. 

“Come here,” he says.

Brian doesn't move.

“Brian, don't make me get up, come here.”

Brian groans and turns around, and Justin holds out his arms. Brian hesitates, comes. 

God, hugging him is like finding an umbrella in a storm. 

“I'm okay,” Justin whispers. “I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay.”

**

Jennifer is furious.

“The _night_ you get home you're out wandering around—”

“I wasn't wandering.”

“You know how I feel about you seeing Brian, and especially now—” 

Justin sits heavily on his bed and starts setting up the nebulizer. 

“I can do that for you,” she says.

“I can do my own meds.”

“All right.”

“And he drove me home, didn't he? He waited and watched me walk in and made sure I made it in one piece? Maybe he's not the fucking devil after all.”

“Justin. That is not what I'm saying.”

He just glares at her, because fuck this shitty condo and this shitty life, fuck everything that isn't that loft and that man. 

“He knew a priest came to do my last rites,” Justin says.

Jennifer doesn't say anything.

“He knew that that happened. I didn't even know that that happened. You told me he didn't come to the hospital.”

“He didn't ask to see you,” Jennifer says.

“But he was there! He was coming and checking if I was okay.”

“I asked him if he wanted to sit with you, I asked him, and he said—”

“He thought it was his fault! Of course he didn't want to touch me. He...he'll barely touch me now.”

Jennifer holds her hand up. “None of this is relevant.”

“You let me think he'd given up on me! That I was too much and I scared him away!”

“You need to give up on him!” Jennifer yells back.

Justin sucks on the nebulizer and keeps glaring.

“You are in no place to be in a relationship right now, Justin,” she says.

“It's not a relationship,” he says automatically.

“You need to focus on yourself and on getting better, and the way to do that is not by following this...this man around to clubs and bars.” Her voice breaks. “I almost just lost you, baby.”

 _You didn't almost lose me,_ he wants to say. _I was just almost lost._

There's a difference. 

Justin is not an experience.

She is, unfortunately, right about one thing; he feels absolutely wretched from his evening out. He turns away from her on the bed and wraps his arms around his chest, feeling his lungs expand.

Ever since they took the vent out he's been convinced he's going to spontaneously stop breathing. That one minute he'll be doing his regular, shitty imitation of an inhale, and then he'll just stop, just forget to how to do it, and that'll be it. He dreams about it every night, wakes up in a cold sweat, reaching for someone who isn't there.

It's too stupid to tell anyone about, even Daphne.

Definitely not Jennifer, not now.

She comes over and puts her hand on his head. “I just want you safe, Justin.”

“At some point you're going to need to accept that that's not one of my options,” he manages to get out in one breath.

**

“You can do it,” Brian says. “Just purse your lips and blow.”

They're sitting on the front steps of the condo, squinting in the sunlight, Brian's legs pouring endlessly down the stairs. 

“The issue isn't that I don't know how to blow bubbles,” Justin says. “I'm familiar with the concept.”

Brian blows a few, contemplatively. 

“I can't do it,” Justin says.

“Well, that's why you're practicing.”

Lung rehab. He has to go back to the CF ward once a week to get his lung function checked and breathe into the fluttery tubes and check his FEV1 and all that exciting stuff, but there's exercises he has to do at home, too. Like blowing bubbles, which is what he was trying to do when Brian pulled up in his Jeep, early evening, unexpected.

“Maybe I should get Gus some bubbles,” Brian says, examining the bottle.

“Too little.”

“Yeah.”

Justin swallows. “He must be so much bigger now.”

Brian shrugs. “You’ll see him soon. At the party.”

Justin floats on the fact that he’s implicitly invited. But still. “Too sick.”

“It’s just sitting around. You’ll be fine.” He nudges the bubbles towards Justin. “Try again.”

Justin tries, but he just doesn’t have the breath control for it. His air comes out too weakly or in a stuttering wheeze that breaks the film of the soap.

“That was closer,” Brian says.

“You're so full of shit.”

“Fine. It’s pretty pathetic that you can’t properly operate a children’s toy.”

Justin snorts. “Shut up.”

“Christ. Can’t win with you.”

Justin laughs again, which turns into a long fit of coughing, and Brian takes the opportunity to check his phone and then get up and stretch some. Justin watches the way the sunlight bounces off his bare shoulders.

“Maybe I could do this is you weren’t here,” Justin says, to break the moment. It's too much, too tender, too close to a memory of a parking garage he can hear but not see. “Maybe I’m allergic to you.”

“That would explain a lot.” 

“You know one of the signs of anaphylaxis is a feeling of impending doom.”

“Oh yeah, I give you that?”

“Well, everything gives me that.”

Brian smiles a little.

“My therapist said I might have PTSD,” Justin says. “From the tube down the throat and everything.”

Brian watches him steadily. “What do you think?”

“I just think I can’t breathe,” Justin says, but he blows one big perfect bubble and watches it float up to Brian.

**

His mother comes home soon after that and says she wants to talk to Brian alone, which Justin hopes is just to pry into how he did today, but he has a nasty feeling it’s not. Brian leaves soon after, and Justin looks out the window suspiciously as the Jeep pulls away and his mother steps back inside.

“What did he tell you?” Justin says, because there are some things about his journey to recovery today—particularly the hand job he tried but was eventually too out of breath to give—that he’d rather remained between him and Brian.

But she just says, “Nothing,” which is, of course, extraordinarily believable. Justin goes straight to his room and calls Brian.

It takes Brian several rings to answer. “Hey,” he says. He sounds tired.

“What the hell was that?”

“Justin...”

“Don't call me that.”

“She's right. You know she's right.”

He feels cold. “I don't know shit.”

“Well, that may be true.”

“She told you to stay away from me?”

“She told me that you're....”

“That I'm what, too fragile? Too delicate? I'm not a fucking Faberge egg, Brian, I'm just sick.”

“I know that. You know that I know that.” He sounds pissed. And it's hard to think about the things Brian's done to him in bed and not believe that Brian thinks he's got strength to spare. “Look, focus on getting better, and I'll—” 

“You'll go back to drinking yourself to death and snorting coke off every bare chest you can find.”

“Well, not every bare chest.”

“Brian.”

“I'm not going to fucking fall apart because I'm not seeing you,” Brian says. “What the fuck kind of thing do you think this is that we're doing, little boy? You think I'd die for you?” 

Justin feels cold. “That isn't going to work.”

“I'm not trying anything, I'm telling you the truth. I was a mess because you were in a fucking coma. You're all nice and healed now, so you keep telling me. So why do I need to be sitting there on the fucking stoop with you blowing bubbles when you can do it just fine all by your little self?”

“Because you _want to be._ ”

“You have no idea what I want.”

“You want this to be easy. You want there to be no overprotective moms and no disease and no fucking hurdles but that's not life, Brian.”

“Oh, yes, please, more of the eighteen-year-old telling me what life is.”

“Shut the fuck up! Jesus!”

“What I want is to not have to get into any more heart to heart discussions with the mother of the guy I fucking _happened_ to scrape off the street one night about how I'm going to send him to an early goddamn grave. That's what I want out of this situation.”

“Fucking coward.”

“Put it on my gravestone,” Brian says, and hangs up. 

**

Justin avoids his mother for the rest of the day, goes to bed early, and has one of those dreams again. It's bad this time, a mask full of water held over his face, his lungs fruitlessly gasping as they fill up and up and up. He wakes up with a yelp and leans over the side of the bed, one hand on his chest, one clawing the mattress, begging for air.

His mother comes in, clutching her robe around herself. “Justin.”

“Don't.”

“Is there anything I—”

“You don't think you've done enough?” 

He gets up to start setting up the nebulizer, but there's no point, he's too fucking angry. He whirls around and drives his fist against the window, kicks the pretty little trim on the baseboards.

“Justin!”

“You ruined the _one good thing I had._ You understand that, right?”

“Brian is not—”

“I'm not talking about Brian!” he says, even though of course he is, he always is. “Liberty Avenue, going out, having friends, fucking _knowing queer people,_ do you know how much that meant to me? And I'm giving it up so I can sit around the fucking house and do breathing exercises? What's the goddamn point? What am I doing it for?”

“Don't say that.”

“I spent seventeen fucking years being good and doing my treatments and listening to everything you said because I wanted it to be worth it, I wanted to be healthy and to get as many years as I could once I was out of the closet. Once I could stop living this fake _fucking_ life I've been trapped in. So I waited. And I was good. And I waited.”

Jennifer's crying. He doesn't care.

“And now what? I'm not healthy, I don't get to have a life that I care about, so what the fuck is the point, Mom? What am I fucking waiting for at this point besides _dying!_ ” 

“Baby...”

“I wish I'd fucking died,” he says. “You should have let me go if you were just going to lock me up forever.” He knocks the nebulizer to the floor. “I'm not doing this shit. I don't care. None of this goddamn means anything.”

Jennifer stares at him.

“I'm done,” Justin says.

**

“Christ,” Brian says, his wrists draped over the steering wheel. “You are such a fucking drama queen.”

“Hey, it worked.”

 _“I'm going to stop taking my meds._ God, you're annoying.”

“I meant it....at the time.” Then he woke up and realized he was a fucking idiot and put his nebulizer back together, but the damage was done. Three hours later his mom was telling him to pack his things up, and half an hour after that, Brian was there to pick him up.

“Can't believe you conned your way into this,” Brian says.

“Ah, yes. Because we know how much I've wanted to live with you since the night we met.”

“Probably you have, in your weird twisted heart of hearts. Who knows with you.”

Justin leans back against the seat and smiles, feeling the sun on his face. He opens his eyes and spots Brian looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing.” Brian turns back to the road. “You know this is just until you get better, right?”

“Oh, so forever?”

“You know what I mean. You told me that night after the bar, it's going to get better than it is right now.”

“Yeah, because you looked like you were going to run away like a little bunny if I said anything else. I don't know if it's getting better than this.” 

“It is,” Brian says, with so much certainty. 

**

It's so different, this time, moving his stuff into the loft. Being wanted this time, or at least something adjacent to it. He's completely out of breath from bringing two bags up in the elevator, so Brian nudges him towards the couch and goes to get the rest of the stuff, so Justin takes the opportunity to remove his clothes.

Brian drops a box and a duffel bag—the same one he waved in Justin's face all those months ago—to the floor. “Well,” he says.

“I thought I'd express my gratitude.” 

“Consider it expressed,” Brian says, and they kiss, hard, for the first time in months. It shocks the wind out of Justin, but he still holds on for as long as he can, taking Brian's breath in as his own. Brian lets him up for air, trailing kisses up his neck, his hands already reaching down to grab Justin's thighs and carry him off to bed.

And it starts out so perfectly, Justin's back on the bed, Brian covering him like a harness, Brian's arms around his neck and his hands in Justin's hair. 

Except Justin is so, so dizzy.

“Hang on,” he says, against his will, and Brian stops, takes the opportunity to get the lube and a condom and gently stretch out Justin's legs. “Mmm,” Justin says, shaking his head when Brian starts to push inside him. “Hang on, hang on.”

“What's wrong?”

“Just can't breathe. Give me a minute.”

“You want to roll over?”

“Wouldn't help,” he gasps. “Just give me a second.”

Brian cups his jaw, so gently, pats his cheek. 

“You trying to make me breathe?”

“It works on drowning people in movies.”

Justin starts coughing and mutters, “Fuck,” and sits up, bracing himself on the bed. Brian waits for it to pass, and when it doesn't, grabs the box of tissues by the bed and puts his hand on the back of Justin's neck.

“Sorry,” Brian says. “Been a while.”

“You didn't do anything, it's just...” Justin gestures at himself, so goddamn frustrated. 

Brian rests his hand on Justin's back.

“Damn it,” Justin says.

**

It's so goddamn frustrating. Lying next to Brian Kinney and being too sick to do anything to Brian Kinney should have been Prometheus's torture instead of that bird thing. 

The whole living situation feels weirdly tenuous, like Justin's afraid Brian's going to evict him because he can't put out, and even though he _knows_ that's not the case, knows he's not here as some fucking concubine...I mean, isn't that what their relationship's always been based on? Even when he was in the hospital with the port infection they were fucking every time they could get away from the prying eyes of some nurse or RT. 

And even if sex isn't necessary, if by the grace of God it isn't a prereq to Brian having him around...fuck, Justin loves it, loves how safe it makes him feel to be held up close to Brian's chest, loves the unnatural unbelievable wave breaking over him when Brian makes him come as effortlessly as a piano player striking a key. This is what makes Justin feel connected. It's what makes him feel alive.

As if that weren't enough, Brian's clearly thrown by how sick Justin is, how many more medications he takes now and how much more often he needs his chest hit or time with the vest, and he's freaked out, as much as he's trying to hide it. Between that and the lack of sex, Justin's waiting with, if you'll excuse the pun, bated breath everyday, ready to hear _Sunshine, this isn't working out. Go home to your mom._

But he doesn't, and Brian wakes him up from nightmares and pounds the crap out of his lungs.

**

Debbie and Vic act like he's the King of Zanzibar when he comes to visit. Vic has to break the six foot rule to pry Debbie's arms off of Justin's neck.

“You know you need to call your poor mother,” Debbie says.

“I know, I know.”

“She's a mess ever since you left.” Debbie and Jennifer becoming best friends was one that Justin did'nt see coming, he'll admit. “Thinks it's all her fault, think she pushed you out.”

“She's not exactly wrong,” Justin says, but he still feels guilty. And he misses Molly. 

“So,” Vic says, when Debbie goes to whip up something ridiculously high-calorie, as always. “How bad is it?”

“I don't really know yet,” Justin says. “It depends whether or not this gets better.”

“Has it been this bad before?”

“Not unless I was like, actively super sick. Like if I was in the hospital with something. It's weird that everyone's just letting me wander around and live my life like this.” God, he sounds like his mother. What's he going to do, chain himself to a bed until he croaks? When he can't even have sex. What a life. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How do you stop worrying that someone's going to get sick of you? How did you finally believe you weren't like, a burden on Deb?”

“Have I gotten myself to believe that?” Vic says. “That's good news.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I,” Vic says. “It's not something you do once and then it's over. It's like coming out. You have to do it over and over again every day. You wake up and you look for clues that people want you around.”

Justin thinks about Brian leaving him a note when he leaves and Justin is asleep, or heckling him about eating enough, or sucking water off his collarbone in the shower. 

“That doesn't mean they won't change their minds, though,” Justin says.

“No, but people like us thrive in instability.”

“I don't think I've ever thrived in my life.”

“Silly,” Vic says. “Look at you. You've done a lot harder work than having to remember every day that people love you.” 

“It still sucks.”

“It does,” Vic says. “But you know what? Healthy people have to do that one too. At least for once we're not special.”

**

It's astonishing how many people have shown up to a one-year-old's birthday party. Justin's seen fewer bodies at Babylon. 

He feels unironically suffocated by the crowd, but he ventures in anyway, and Michael gives him a big hug and Emmett and Ted fuss over him like hens and Melanie and Lindsay kiss his cheeks. Gus is enormous, looks like a different baby, and he shies away when Justin stretches his arms out to him, which hurts more than he'd like to admit. 

He retreats to the front steps soon after that and watches everything, particularly watches Brian pick through the buffet table and sample the cake frosting and drink out of his flask and otherwise act like a model party guest. Justin leans against the house and tries to look casual.

Brian comes up eventually, with a slice of cake for Justin that he doesn’t want but eats anyway. Brian sits on the railing and stretches his legs out. He looks peaceful, happy.

“Think Gus is having fun?” Justin says.

“I asked him,” Brian says, his eyes closed, face tilted up to catch the sun. “His answer was non-committal.”

“Playing it cool, I see.”

“Just like his old man.” Brian peeks an eye open. “You doing okay?”

His throat’s feeling kind of clogged, and he’s tired and wants to lie down, but none of that is worth ruining this for Brian. “I’m okay.”

“I think some kids had some bubbles in the backyard,” Brian says, and Justin sticks his tongue out.

He starts to feel worse, though, as the day drags on, Gus opening dozens and dozens of presents. He doesn’t like being outside this long—the pollen bothers him, and the heat—but if he goes inside it’s just all of Lindsay’s older relatives who will probably look at him like he has infectious TB if he coughs anywhere near them, and right now he’s having trouble doing anything but.

“Need a hand?” Brian says.

He shakes his head. “Hard to breathe.”

“I got that impression, yeah. We can go soon.”

He’s hanging in there until Gus opens a present and Melanie pulls out a play scuba set, complete with a mask. They hold it up to Brian, like they keep doing, as if he’s ever going to express anything stronger than lukewarm approval, and Justin sees the tiny plastic snorkel and the little mask, and it reminds him so much of the mask from his dream, the one filled with water, and he’s suddenly and stupidly worried about Gus and he wants to say no, don’t give him that, it’s not safe, he’s just a kid and it’s not his fault, but he can’t breathe.

“Justin,” Brian says, sounding very far away.

Justin shakes his head, puts his hand on his chest, and tries to get air in, but even though he feels himself breathing it’s like it’s not working, like he’s doing it wrong.

He knew this was going to happen. He knew he was going to forget how to breathe.

“Justin.” Brian’s hands are on his shoulders now, and he’s guiding Justin back and away from view, hiding him in his chest. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“Yes you can. You’re panicking. Try to slow it down.”

“No, I-“

Brian’s arms are all the way around him, a kind of tenderness Justin’s never felt from him outside of sex. And he can’t even enjoy it because he’s goddamn dying.

“Deep breath,” Brian says. “As deep as you can. You’re _okay,_ “ he says, between exasperation and reassurance.

“You don’t—”

“No, I’m a veritable fucking expert at this point, and you can breathe. Stop crying and let your air out, you’re fine.”

He hadn’t even realized he was crying. Something about acknowledging that makes it more believable that he’s having a fucking panic attack at a one-year-old’s birthday party.

_My doctor thinks I have PTSD._

_I think I just can’t breathe._

“There you go,” Brian says. “Okay. All right.”

**

He falls asleep on the ride back to the loft, and only rouses a little when Brian gets him out of the car and nudges him towards the elevator. He changes into soft clothes and curls up on top of the covers on a bed that feels like his for the first time. He dozes on and off, listening to Brian moving around the loft.

Brian comes up to the bedroom at some point, when the loft is dark besides the blue light over the bed. He startles to see Justin awake. “Sorry,” Justin says softly.

Brian runs a hand down his face. “You want your vest?”

“In a little while.” All the crying and lying down has him feeling particularly congested, but it’s not bothering him right now.

Brian comes and sits on the end of the bed, resting his hand briefly on Justin’s back, like it’s automatic. “You scared the shit out of me today,” he says.

“I know.”

“It was like watching them put that fucking tube in you all over again,” Brian says, and Justin knew it, he fucking knew Brian was there.

Justin leans forwards and kisses him, softly, and Brian’s lips part gently and his tongue seeks out Justin’s. Justin lays a hand on his arm, so lightly, and feels Brian’s pulse just under his skin. Fast. Uncertain.

“It’s okay,” Justin whispers.

“You’re stuffed-up...”

“It’s okay.”

Justin lays Brian down, kisses him like that for a while, but he misses the feeling of Brian’s body on his and rolls underneath him where he belongs. Brian works his mouth down Justin’s body, and Justin covers his face with his hands.

_You won’t stop breathing. You won’t stop breathing._

“You’ve got this,” Brian mumbles into his skin.

He does.

**

They lie together afterwards, Brian fast asleep in the crook of Justin’s arm, Justin using his nebulizer to blow smoke rings at the ceiling.

Brian snores just a little bit, and Justin is so, so happy.

**

It's time to make up with his mom, he figures, after he's lived with Brian for about two weeks and things have started to settle down. He asks her to go shopping with him at the specialty art store for school supplies, and Molly comes too, and it's nice, being out just the three of them. It reminds Justin of when he was younger, and his mom would pick him up after art class or soccer practice and take him and Molly out for ice cream, and Justin would forget about everything for a little while.

She fusses over him and makes sure that he's eating enough and keeping up with his treatments. She asks if Brian is treating him well, and she manages to say his name without wincing. 

They don't talk about Craig, except to discuss paying for school. “He still hasn't done it,” Justin says.

“He told me he would. I guess he's just biding his time.”

“Some kind of power move.”

She sighs. “I wouldn't be surprised.” She picks up an oil pastel set and puts it down. “Honey...”

“Oh Lord.”

She laughs a little. “I just don't see why waiting until next year would be such a problem. You _just_ got out of the hospital.”

“I always just got out of the hospital.”

“You know what I mean. This was a big setback, honey. No one's saying you can't take some time to recover.”

“Time's been taken. I'm ready.” Now that he can have sex again, Justin's back to feeling pretty invincible.

“But if you just take a year off—” 

“And do what?” Justin says. “No more wasting time.”

She can't argue with that. 

“All right,” she says. “But you're going to need some warmer clothes. Look at that sweater you're wearing. We're going to Kohl's after this.”

**

The funny thing is, Brian's also kind of anxious about Justin going to school. He hides it a lot better than Jen, obviously, and mostly disguises it with eye rolls and snarky comments, but he still tries to come up with some excuses for Justin to take a gap year, or take a part-time schedule. Justin blows him off. 

The first day of school comes along and he feels like a fucking kindergartner. Brian drives him and doesn't try to take some picture of him with his backpack or anything, so at least some things are normal. Brian adjusts his sunglasses and unlocks the door for him, pretending to look at something in the rear view mirror.

“I can take the bus home,” Justin says.

Brian shrugs. “It's on my way.”

“I'm gonna be fine.”

“I know. Get out of my car.”

Worry, Brian Kinney-style.

The day starts easily enough, with introductions and dumb icebreaker games and stuff like that. Justin’s gained enough weight back that he just looks skinny, not emaciated, so he passes for healthy well enough. He likes the other students, on first impression, which is noteworthy because he never likes anyone on first impression, especially not people his age. But these people seem serious without being pretentious, and sure, they’re joking around and making more noise than Justin would like, but they’re young. And Brian says despite Justin’s world-weariness he’s still plenty loud and annoying, so he probably shouldn’t throw stones.

It becomes clear pretty early that most of them already know each other from the dorms, and that stings a little, like it always does when Justin realizes he’s missed out on something he hadn’t even noticed. But it’s not as if he’d be living in the dorms even if this last fiasco hadn’t happened. Dust and germs and smoke. He’d just be living with his mom or Deb and Vic instead of with Brian.

Some things just aren’t meant to be.

They start with figure drawing, which seems a good a place to begin as any. They’re sitting on stools, which Justin doesn’t love—they take a lot more strength than chairs to stay on for any length of time—but he’s having a good day and it should be manageable. He picks up his charcoal and gets to work. 

He doesn’t even notice how silent the classroom is until he coughs.

It’s like a spell is broken. Everyone stops, charcoal skittering across paper and then nothing, and Justin swallows and apologizes softly, and they start again.

He spends the rest of class trying not to cough.

**

He keeps that up until he gets into Brian’s car and coughs, and coughs, and coughs.

Brian ignores him for the first mile and a half, but eventually says, “You planning on breathing at some point?”

“That’s the goal,” Justin chokes out.

Brian stops at the drive thru Starbucks and gets a latte for himself and a tea for Justin. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“A progressive lung disease. It's called—” 

“Shut the absolute fuck up. I listen to you cough as a fucking part-time job at this point.”

“Except you don't get paid.”

“Yet another one of my agonies. I'm asking you what the fuck is going on.”

“I had to not cough for six hours,” Justin says. “I'm making up for lost time.”

“I'm not sure I've heard you go six minutes without coughing since you got out of the hospital. You're telling me you went six hours?”

“I mean, I wasn't a hundred percent successful.”

“Why the fuck weren't you coughing?”

Justin rubs his chest. “I didn't want to be disruptive.”

“You've never cared about that shit.”

“I didn't used to be this disruptive,” Justin says. “Can we talk about this later? I feel like trash.”

**

That doesn't let up. Justin suffers for his sins the next twelve hours, coughing until he throws up and keeping both him and Brian awake at all hours. They're both disheveled and cranky in the morning, and Brian fucks him hard in the shower steam and even that doesn't calm down Justin's lungs. He brings the portable nebulizer to school with him and plans to use it on breaks, but the professor who gave breaks yesterday inexplicably doesn't today, and by the time lunch rolls around Justin can't take it anymore. He walks to the bus stop and gets himself home, where at least he can sleep and cough to his heart's content. 

And he thinks, fuck this.

Everyone's always telling him to put his health first. 

Some things just aren't meant to be. 

He doesn't wake up until the evening, when he finds a bottle of water and a note from Brian saying he's at Babylon. He still feels like garbage, but he also hates himself right now, so Babylon sounds great. It's not like he has school in the morning. 

He's dancing with some hot guy with nice teeth and no last name when Brian comes up and hands him a whiskey glass. “Surprised you came out,” he says.

“I came out years ago.”

“Not even true.”

He follows Brian back to where the guys are hanging out by the stairs. Emmett kisses him and Michael asks how school is going.

“I'm going to quit,” Justin says. “I'm going to go talk to my advisor tomorrow and make it official.”

Brian looks at him.

“Why?” Michael says.

“It's not for me.”

“No, but like in what way.” 

“Like it's not _for_ me,” Justin says. “It's not for people like me.”

“I thought art was full of queers,” Michael says to Ted, who looks equally confused. 

It's just so exhausting sometimes.

“You want to dance?” he asks Brian.

Brian drains his glass. “No.”

“Suit yourself,” Justin says. He'll find someone else. He's good at this, despite everything. Nobody here cares if he's loud when he breathes. Nobody cares if he takes a break after a dance.

Nobody cares about anything.

**

“Okay,” Brian says when they get home. He drops his keys on the counter. “Are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

It's not like Justin has to guess what he's talking about. “No.”

“Justin.”

Justin stops halfway to the bathroom and turns around. “They didn't give us a break.”

“What?”

“The whole day, every class, we worked all the way through. And that was fine for everyone else. It has to be fine for you to be able to get everything done.”

“So tell them you need a break.”

“Are you not listening?”

Brian pinches his nose. “What kind of accommodations did you get at St. James?”

“Nothing. I just didn't lose points for sick days.”

“You didn't get extra time for tests and shit?”

“Yeah, but I never used it.”

“Of course you didn't use it, you can speed your way through a fucking algebra test, but you can't exactly do that for a drawing, can you?”

Justin is so, so tired, and the bed is so close. “What are you even fucking talking about?”

“Get your extra time back. Get breaks.”

“I can't just ask people for things, Brian.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I'm supposed to shut up!” he yells. “I'm supposed to be good and fake normal and blend in so people don't treat me differently!”

Brian looks at him like he's speaking another language. “Why wouldn't you want people to treat you differently?”

No one's ever asked him that before.

And all Justin can say is, “I'm just...not supposed to.”

Brian sighs and rests his palm on the counter. “Go to the disability office tomorrow and get your accommodations.” 

“I never really needed anything,” Justin says softly.

“Yeah, you've been fucking lucky as a disabled person to not need much until now. That's over now. You got pneumonia, your lungs are worse, college is harder, whatever. Cry about it for ten minutes and then do what you need to do to keep going.”

“Why do you know so much about this?”

Brian rolls his eyes. “I have three hundred employees, you think I don't know about disability accommodations?” 

“I've never really thought of myself as disabled before,” Justin says. 

“Well.” Brian claps him on the shoulder on the way to the bathroom. “No time like the present.”

**

Justin's first Pride is the next week, and he's worried about it, about the crowds and the dust and the stress, but Brian shelves his _fuck the homosexuals_ attitude for long enough to tell him that he can't miss his first Pride, and he goes and it works out. He watches the parades in the morning and comes home and sleeps in the afternoon, and in the evening he and Brian dance on the street under the rainbow lights, and maybe he can't remember what his fake prom was like, but it couldn't have been this good.

Everything is really great, in fact. Living with Brian is going so much more smoothly than it logically should. Things are good with his mother, and he takes his sister out for pizza twice a month. He finally feels like he fits in with Brian's friends, and Michael even tells him that he inspired him to open up the new comic store, and as much as Justin usually hates being inspiration porn for healthy people, it is cool to see something concrete come out of his presence here. 

And Brian. God, Brian.

It’s the talking. It’s the sex, but mostly it’s the talking. They never fucking shut up. They chatter while Justin makes dinner, while they’re watching TV, while Brian’s on the treadmill. They stay up all night one time after sex, comparing Babylon tricks and ranking the blow jobs Justin’s given and laughing about their traumas, Brian’s in showers and bath houses, Justin’s in hospital rooms and his father’s study.

Justin had, of course, daydreamed about being in a relationship, but he’d never really thought about this part.

It's very scary, to want something to last. 

So Justin is in a beautiful, breakable heaven, and then Ben comes along.

**

They’re at Babylon the first time they meet. Justin’s had a little bit of E and Brian’s had a bit more and they’re vibrating and happy, Brian’s arms around Justin’s waist, Justin’s lips on a glass. Ted and Emmett are running around all abuzz about being newly minted porn kings, and the whole thing is just too funny. Justin leans his head back into Brian’s hand, and Brian’s long fingers play with his hair.

And then Michael shows up on the dance floor with someone gorgeous, which is initially very exciting, since it’s Michael. They all peer at him through the crowd, Justin on his tip-toes and balanced on Brian’s shoulder, until Michael finally gets sick of them staring and comes over to make introductions. Ben is tall, solid, smart, and beautiful, the kind of guy who could break Justin in half and make him breakfast after, and Justin’s just a little bit annoyed that Michael got to him before he and Brian could take him for a test drive, but whatever. Justin enjoys being presented as one of Michael’s friends and he leans into Brian and feels safe.

But then Ted asks Ben where he knows him from, and it turns out he wrote a book, and it turns out that book was about having HIV.

“Six feet,” Brian says immediately, shoving Justin back.

Ben looks confused and a little offended. “I’m not...”

Brian towards Justin. “He is.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “I have CF,” he says.

“Ah.” Ben smiles at him. “One of the tribe, huh?”

Justin looks at Ben with his bulging muscles, his tan, his easy breathing.

“Yeah,” Justin says. “Same tribe.”

**

“What’s got your nuts in a twist?” Brian asks him later.

“Vivid, thank you.” Justin’s on his stomach on his bed, his laptop between his elbows. “I’m just looking up Ben’s book.”

“All these fucking artists all of a sudden.”

“Yeah, your life is very hard.”

“I know.” Brian gets on the bed and crawls up Justin's body, and Justin shivers and arches his back. “Find anything interesting?”

“It gets good reviews.”

“And clearly that deeply pisses you off for some reason.”

“It's not that,” Justin says. “It's...”

“Is it too on the nose to say 'spit it out,' or...?”

Justin shoves him. “It's a book about being sick. It's a whole memoir about being sick.”

“Sounds like a thousand other books.”

“But he's not sick,” Justin says.

Brian squints. “You're saying he's lying about having HIV? You got that from an Amazon page?”

“No, he has HIV, but like...look, it's all in the bio. He was diagnosed three years ago, and the memoir is about him traveling around Asia with HIV. None of the reviews mention any major health crises or harrowing hospital stories or anything like that. He's just...backpacking. And look at him now.”

“So he's not sick because he doesn't look sick? I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Sunshine, but you don't exactly look like you're at death's door anymore either.”

“No, he's sick, he's just not...” He doesn't know how to make Brian understand this. “He's not the kind of sick that should be representing us. He's not what people should picture.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn't need anything,” Justin says. “And people will expect none of us to need anything if he's the big voice of it.”

“I didn't realize there was some hierarchy of being sick,” Brian says.

“There's a hierarchy of everything, you know that.”

Brian shrugs and gets off the bed. “Then it sounds to me like you're being kind of an exclusionary asshole.”

Justin sighs and coughs. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Didn't expect that to go over that well, wow.”

“No, you're right, I mean...I feel like a fucking jerk saying all this stuff. I don't want to be some fucking...disability gatekeeper.” He's getting comfortable with the word. “And of course, like you said, people with invisible illnesses are valid and also include me.”

“Okay, so...?”

“So I don't know. I feel really shitty about Ben and this book and I don't think I know why.”

“You know who you need to talk to,” Brian says.

“Yeah, I know.”

**

“Of course it's hard,” Vic says. “Being jealous is always hard.”

“I'm not jealous,” Justin says, his legs curled up around himself on the couch. 

Vic raises an eyebrow.

“I'm not,” Justin says. “I got over my jealous of healthy people thing when I was six years old. I don't wish I were normal.”

“That's not what you're jealous of,” Vic says.

“Okay, then let's flip to the back of the book here, tell me what my problem is. I'm ready to hear the answer. I'd like to stop being a passive aggressive dick to Michael at some point.” This morning at the diner Justin flat-out pretended he didn't see Michael when he waved him over to his table. 

Vic laughs a little. “It's hard when someone knew comes around. Of course it feels like an invader.” 

“Isn't it hard for you? Seeing these young, healthy people become the face of HIV?”

“Yes,” Vic says plainly.

“I get that he's sick too. But there's a part of this that he doesn't understand.”

“Our community has to be big enough for all kinds,” Vic says. “If you're sick, you get a membership card. That's the way it has to be, even if it means beefcakes like Ben get to join.”

“It's not that I don't...” Justin sighs. “It's fine that he's here. I just feel like he should be in the background. He could live to be a hundred with the new drugs. He could never feel sick a day in his life. And even if he will, he hasn't _yet._ Shouldn't he be sitting back and listening? Why is he writing a book?”

Vic sits back on the couch and smiles a little.

“Okay, what.”

“You're upset about the book.”

“Yes, I'm upset about the book.”

“You could write a book.”

“I don't write books,” Justin says. “Visual art.”

“There you go,” Vic says.

“What?”

“You're jealous,” Vic says. “Not because he's healthier than you are. You're not jealous because you're sick. You're jealous because you're an artist.”

This hits Justin somewhere between his throat and his chest.

“You want to make something big and true and important,” Vic says. “You want to get to take your turn being the face of the community.”

“I'm not ready yet,” Justin says.

“Even better,” Vic says. “You have goals. You're looking forward to getting more experienced. When was the last time you wanted to get older?”

**

Justin slowly warms to Ben. He avoids discussing sick stuff with him, and Ben gives up after a few tries, but he likes talking literature and art and college life. Brian gets a little bit possessive and starts reading some of Justin's art books to keep up, which is hilarious. Michael gets possessive and just pouts, which is as well. 

Every few months he has to go to the hospital for a week for a course of IV antibiotics, and he manages to schedule it for the start of winter break so he doesn't miss any classes. Brian helps him pack his bag and brings him to the hospital. Justin was worried Brian would be a little edgy after their last hospital experience, but he seems to be giving this all the gravitas that dropping Justin off for a glorified oil change deserves.

Visits for tune-ups are largely boring, as are most hospital stays, but for these he doesn't even have the novelty of feeling like shit or getting lots of presents. He gets PT about five times a day because what else are they gonna do with his time, and he gets his IV antibiotics to keep the infections in his lungs at bay and plenty of nebulizer treatments and he feels good. Leo's not in the hospital this time, and Justin doesn't really feel like making distanced small talk with the other CFers on the ward, mostly because they're all about ten years old, so he stays in his room and registers for next semester's classes and trades dirty IMs with Brian and reads magazines and sleeps. It's kind of like the resort he had to go to in West Virginia with his grandparents when he was a kid, where you drank water from a well and ate eggs from on-site chickens. At least here the rooms have TVs.

His mother comes to visit his third day in, and Justin stays in his chair and sweeps his arm grandly across the room. “Welcome.”

She kisses his forehead. “Hi.” She sits on the edge of the bed and faces him, her hands in her lap.

“Oh God. What.”

“I just had a phone call with your father.”

“I keep telling you to change your number. Talk to Brian, he knows a guy.”

“I called him,” she said. “Because I wanted to see when he was planning to pay for your next semester, so we could avoid the runaround with the office we had to have last time around.” 

“Okay...”

She sighs. “He says he's not going to pay it.”

“What?”

“He says in this economy, he can't justify supporting an education in the arts, that it's not best for you.”

“Like he gives a shit what's best for me.”

“I know.”

“This is such bullshit,” Justin says. “What the fuck does he expect me to do?”

“He expects me to pay for it, and I will,” she says firmly.

“With what?”

“With what I have saved, and I'm making some money now with the houses—”

Justin shakes his head. “I'm not taking your money.” 

“I'm not having you drop of out school,” Jennifer says. “Not because of your father.”

Justin runs his hand down his face. “Then I guess I get a job.”

“You're going to balance going to school, getting a job, and taking care of yourself?”

Justin coughs out a laugh. “Yeah, apparently.”

**

Debbie hands him an apron and tells him not to cough on the food and that’s that.

“You realize this is moronic,” Brian says, while Justin refills his coffee and balances a plate of scrambled eggs on his arm.

“Ableist term.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“So you’ve told me. Can I get you anything else, sir?”

“You can put that shit down and come back to the loft. You’re going to make yourself sick, you know.”

“That would be something new and exciting.”

“I will lend you the money,” Brian says.

“You already give me a place to live,” Justin says. “I want to do something on my own.”

“Your sick kid pride is going to be the death of me.”

“Well, probably of me too, if it’s any consolation.”

Brian drops by again ever so nonchalantly after work, at the end of Justin’s shift. He gives Justin a sideways glance over the rim of his glass. “Doing okay?”

Justin nods, knowing he’s breathing hard. “Tired. It’s not bad.”

“You been on your feet this whole time?”

“No, no. Deb gives me tons of breaks.” He’s getting better at it, but it’s so nice not having to ask for things. Debbie just knows.

But after a few days at the diner he’s sore and breathless at the end of the day, and he’s saved up enough money for about three hours of tuition. Brian rubs his shoulders in the shower and Justin says, “Okay, I’ll take your money.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

“But I’m going to keep working at the diner too,” Justin says, running a bar of soap down Brian’s chest. “I like it there. And I want to contribute what I can.”

“Fewer hours.”

“Yeah, fewer hours.”

Brian kisses him. “Sounds good.”

And it is good, and Justin does like the work, until one day he arrives to start work and Debbie’s at the dumpster with a dead body, and this—not Ben, not the hospital, not his dad being a shit—is where everything really starts to come apart.

Breakable heaven. Justin’s never seen a dead body before.

He thinks about them a lot when he’s at the hospital, how many bodies must be in the very same building as him right that minute. But he’s never seen one, and no one he knows well has ever died. He’s never even been to a funeral.

Not that this, a dumpster in an alley and Debbie hysterical and no ID and no name, is a funeral.

Justin recognizes him, too. They’d danced at Babylon a few weeks ago. He was short, blond, cute. Young. At one point, the light had caught his hair and his eyes had sparkled and Justin had thought, “Wow,” and for the briefest moment possible, he had been Justin's whole world.

And now he's dead.

The cops come, and then Brian, and Justin goes to him and puts his hand on his arm.

“Fuck happened here,” Brian says.

“This kid. Debbie found him.”

“Sucks,” Brian said. “You working?”

“Yeah, I will, I...”

“Okay.” Brian gives him a quick kiss. “See you in there.” And he leaves Justin in the alley with the cops, and Debbie, and a dead body.

**

They make dark jokes about it in the diner, Emmett and Ted and Brian. Justin's no stranger to dark jokes about death, and generally is a fan of them, but that's when he's with his sick friends. It's not when someone has actually just died. And it's not coming from people who aren't dying. 

Debbie yells at them, and Justin hides behind the counter and takes some slow breaths. 

Brian comes home late that night and loosens his tie and kisses Justin so deeply it makes his knees weak, then marches over to the closet and starts changing. “Going out.”

Justin sits down on the bed and watches Brian undress and feels profoundly...something, something bad, about the fact that Brian saw what he saw and said what he said and now wants to go out dancing. 

“Do you ever think about when I die?” Justin says, without fully meaning to.

Brian pauses, but doesn't turn around. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do you think about what it feel like when I die. Nine years from now, or whenever.”

Now Brian turns around, looking exhausted. “If this is some fucking talk about _commitment_ —” 

“It's a talk about reality,” Justin says. “Because I don't feel like you're ready for it. I don't think you're going to be able to sit and make jokes in the diner about it.”

“This is about the dumpster kid?”

“He's like my age. He looks like me. It could have _been_ me.”

“How the fuck are you going to end up in a dumpster?”

“That's not—” 

“This is the stupidest fucking conversation,” Brian says. “Some kid died. It has nothing to do with you.”

“You're not going to be able to just brush it off when it's me.”

“This is bullshit,” Brian says. “I'm going out.” He leaves the loft in the clothes he's wearing and slams the door.

“Or maybe you are,” Justin says to no one.

**

They don't talk about it again. Nobody can find who the boy is or who could have killed him, and everyone sort of forgets. Except Debbie, and Justin. They wonder about hi ma lot together, at nights in the diner when there's nobody else there. 

With everyone else, life moves on. He and Michael start a comic book, and Lindsay and Melanie are getting married. 

Brian's been bitching about the wedding since it was announced, so it's not a huge surprise when a few days before he comes home grinning from ear to ear and picks Justin up and sets him on the kitchen counter. “Guess what guess what guess what,” he says, peppering Justin with kisses between words.

Justin grabs for Brian's crotch and says, “Hmm, I don't know.”

Brian purrs into Justin's mouth, then pulls back and drops a kiss on his nose. “We don't have to go to the wedding.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Yes we do.”

“No, we do not. Because we are going out of town.” Brian reaches into his pocket and holds up two tickets. “Guess who's going all expenses to Miami.”

“This weekend?” 

“This weekend. The white party. Think of all the gorgeous men for me. And some for you.” 

Justin blinks. “Brian, I can't just take off to Miami.”

“I already told Lindsay and Melanie. Gave them the rundown of what kind of horrors they're escaping by having us there. And they said after all poor Justin's been through he deserves a weekend away.” Brian nuzzles his cheek. “Think about it. Warm weather. Good for breathing.”

“I have to make arrangements when I travel,” Justin says. “I need a doctor's note explaining my port and there has to be oxygen available on the plane if I need it and I probably need a wheelchair in the airport, and I need to connect with a CF center in Miami in case there's an emergency while I'm there—” 

“Okay, so do it,” Brian says, irritated. “Make the calls.”

“Just make all those calls and get all this done. In three days. Instead of seeing our friends get married.”

Brian lets him go. “If you don't want to go, don't.”

“I didn't say I don't want to. It's not reasonable. I can't just make these decisions spur of the moment, I have to take so much goddamn shit into account.”

“It's not like I decided to do this last minute,” Brian snaps. “I won them in a stupid raffle.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn't have entered it.”

Brian stalks off towards the bedroom.

Justin gets down off the counter. “Brian...”

“I'm going to Miami,” Brian says.

**

Shit really hits the fan around Justin's birthday.

“I don't want to do anything for it,” he tells Brian. “This is not me saying I don't want to do something but secretly hoping you'll do something. I really, really want to not have a birthday this year.” He hasn't been feeling well, and he's no closer to coming up with his magnum opus, so really, the thought of getting older has absolutely no appeal right now. Not after the boy in the dumpster. Not after the nightmares he's been having where nobody's there when he dies, either.

“Do I really seem like the type to throw you a fucking surprise party?” Brian says. 

“Okay, just...don't.”

Irritatingly, it's also Ben's birthday, which means Justin can't get away from thinking about his own, and the whole thing just fucking sucks. Lindsay and Melanie insist on bringing him out to this classical music concert over at PIFA, and he can't talk them out of it and it sounds sufficiently boring enough that it doesn't count as any sort of celebration, so okay, whatever. But morning of he's feeling lousy, running a low fever and congested as all hell, and he really, really wants to cancel.

“Can you call them and tell them I'm sick?” he asks Brian.

Brian's at his desk, poring over an ad campaign. “Call them yourself.”

“They'll think I'm just trying to get out of it.”

“Aren't you?”

“I feel like crap.”

“You've felt like crap all week. If you don't let them take you, they're going to blow it up into a huge deal and guilt me about how I didn't make you have lots of nice musical educational fun for your birthday. And then they'll throw you a belated birthday party. With balloons.”

“I hate our friends.”

“Join the club. You gotta go.”

So he goes. And he sags in his little folding chair and feels like shit. But the violinist is beautiful, and he can't stop himself from sketching him in soft lines with the side of a pencil he finds in his pocket. 

Maybe he doesn't hate classical music after all.

Justin was going to get his CD even if he hated the concert, just in the spirit of supporting young artists, but seeing Ethan Gold's face on the front of the CD makes buying it all the more palatable. Ethan's sitting at a table signing CDs and programs, and, well, he pings the gaydar, so of course Justin's going to go over and tell him how much he enjoyed it, fever or no fever.

Which turns out to be kind of a mistake, because the first thing Ethan does when Justin tries to speak is raise an eyebrow and say, “You okay there?” and oh yeah, Justin kind of looks like warmed over shit today.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Justin says, but now that he's standing he's wavering and he kind of wishes Melanie and Lindsay would swoop in from their little lesbian discussion circle they've found and come save him.

Ethan gestures to the empty chair next to him, behind the table. “Why don't you sit down?” 

“No, I—” 

“No one's using it. C'mon. We'll tell people you're my agent.”

All right, what the hell, it seems flirty enough and he really would like to sit down. “I don't think I'd make a very good agent,” Justin says as he comes around the table. “I'm more of the behind the scenes type.”

“Not a musician, then.”

“I'm in visual arts.”

Ethan nods towards the program, and Justin's sketches. “Can I see?”

“Oh...” Well, too late now. “Here.”

Ethan takes it and flips through it, looking at one sketch and another. “You made me look beautiful,” he says after a while.

“It wasn't hard.”

Ethan's brow furrows a little. “You know, you really look like you should be in bed.”

Justin laughs. “Is that a euphemism?”

Ethan hands the program back to him. “It's not _not_ a euphemism.” 

**

He gets home ragged and sore, coughing his head off, really, really ready for a bowl of soup. He figures he'll play the birthday card to get Brian to make him some, but Brian isn't there. 

So Justin takes a hot shower, and falls asleep on the couch, and drags himself awake and makes the soup himself. Brian still isn't home. He watches TV and does his treatments and writes himself a reminder to make a doctor's appointment. He puts on Ethan's CD.

He's asleep again when Brian stumbles in, stinking of booze and cigarettes and making Justin cough so hard he spits up blood. “Jesus,” Brian says. “Drink some water, here.”

“Where were you?”

“Where the fuck do you think I was?” He puts his palm on Justin's forehead. “Christ. Why are you up?”

“You woke me up.”

“Mmm. Sorry.” He goes into the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth.

Justin follows him. “You couldn't have stayed home one night?”

Brian looks genuinely confused. “Why would I?”

“It's my birthday, and—”

“Hey, you said you didn't want to fucking acknowledge your birthday.”

“Okay, how about I'm _sick._ ”

“You're always sick.”

“Wow, thank you.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. You don't need me here to hold your hand. What do you even need me to do, rinse out the nebulizer? Okay, gimme it, I'll rinse it out.”

“It's fine.”

“Don't be a drama queen.”

“I just felt like shit tonight and it would have been nice if you'd fucking noticed,” Justin says. “Sorry that makes me a drama queen.” And he flops down on the bed and coughs, and coughs, and coughs.

**

He feels like kind of ass about it all the next morning, so he makes Brian breakfast and Brian clearly feels a little bad too and offers to take him to the doctor and sets up the nebulizer for him. But wanting more than he needs makes him want to thank Ethan, who went beyond the call of duty for him yesterday, so on a break at school he wanders around the music building until he hears a violin, and somehow that works.

“Justin,” Ethan says when he sees him, and Justin's chest feels warm. “Good to see you again. Feeling better?”

“Uh, yeah. I just wanted to thank you for—” 

“Y'know you don't really look better. What dorm are you in?”

“I don't live in the dorms. It's fine,” he says, but of course his body chooses that moment to start coughing.

“Oh, God, that doesn't sound good,” Ethan says. 

“It's really not as bad as it sounds,” Justin says, and he takes a slow breath in. But the way Ethan's looking at him he knows he's not going to get out of explaining. “I have CF,” he says. “Cystic fibrosis. It's okay.”

“Oh, wow. I'm so sorry.”

Justin shrugs. “It's okay. Just how things end up sometimes.”

“No wonder you're such an amazing artist,” Ethan says, and even though he's only seen a few sketches, it makes Justin blush. “You've got to do so much with your time.”

No one's ever really spelled it out like that before.

“I'm trying to,” Justin says. “I'm trying really hard.”

**

And then Ben gets sick, out of nowhere. 

It's bad, and it's scary. Michael's stoic, which is unexpected, and pisses Brian off.

“He's being strong for me,” Brian grumbles at one point, while they're packing up Michael's clothes to bring to the hospital, and Justin thinks that Brian means that Michael's doing it to impress him, to make Brian proud, and doesn't put it together until they arrive at the hospital and he sees Michael and Brian together. 

Ben's not contagious, but Justin still has to be careful in hospitals, so he's wearing a mask and gloves and he doesn't go into the room. So he's standing at the other end of the hallway when Michael breaks down outside of Ben's room and Brian talks to him firmly, his hands on his shoulders, and Justin sees his own name on Brian's lips. And when Brian takes Michael into his arms, Justin can see the expression on Brian's face and it cuts right through him. 

Because he knows Brian. Brian's thinking, _this could be me crying in a hospital hallway._

Brian's thinking, _at some point, it will absolutely be me crying in a hospital hallway._

God.

Sometimes Justin feels like it's just fucking inhumane to ask people to care about him.

Brian doesn't say much on the way home, and Justin's feeling simultaneously so horrendously guilty for existing and angry at Brian, Michael, the world, everyone for making him feel horrendously guilty for just fucking existing, _he didn't ask to be born,_ that he doesn't talk either. It's a Saturday, but Brian still needs to go into the office, and as soon as they get home he changes and gets out. Justin has a few hours before his shift at the diner starts and he feels restless, useless, calls Daphne, and she says she could use a buddy to go return a sweater with her. Perfect.

“Is Ben going to be okay?” Daphne asks, as they're walking back to her dorm from the store.

“I think so. It's a reaction to his medication.”

“Mm, you'd know something about that.”

“Yeah. Nobody's asking me, though. I feel like a piece of furniture nobody likes but no one wants to be the one to throw away.”

“You wouldn't be living with Brian if he didn't love you.”

“He said I was only there until I got better. Maybe he thought I'd have wised up and moved out by now.” 

“Has he ever asked you to?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Then don't rock the boat, I guess,” she says. 

They round the corner and come upon a sparse crowd watching a street musician. And it's none other than Ethan Gold.

“Wow, he's pretty,” Daphne says.

“I know him.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, he goes to my school.”

Daphne watches him for a minute and then walks the rest of the block back to her dorm, but Justin stays. When the song's over, he claps with his mittened hands and Ethan gives him a smile. It's a bit dazzling.

“What are you doing all the way out here?” Ethan says.

“My friend Daphne goes to Carnegie Mellon. What about you?”

“Carnegie Mellon students actually have money, unlike the starving artists over at PIFA.” He checks what's in his guitar case. “I think I have enough for coffee. Want to join me?”

“Oh, I—” 

“You're wheezing,” Ethan says. “Let me get you out of the cold.”

He's never had someone who doesn't know him well just...point it out like that. Brian mentioned he had scratchy breathing that first night, but only because he was half asleep and high out of his mind. And he'd had no idea anything was really wrong with him. After he found out, it took him a while to get comfortable commenting on how Justin was doing, and Justin expected that. Brian still barely comments on Justin's breathing unless he's drunk. Once people find out, they get avoidant and uncomfortable. That's what Ethan's supposed to be doing.

And here he is, telling him he's wheezing. Wanting to get him out of the cold.

Justin doesn't hate it.

**

“So I did some research,” Ethan admits over mochas. “You've had it since you were born?”

“Yeah. They didn't know until I was one and a half, though. They just thought I kept getting colds, and then they thought I had really bad asthma. Then they figured it out.”

Ethan drops his chin into his hand. “Wow.”

“I don't remember any of that...obviously,” Justin says.

“Do you remember when you found out?”

“That I was sick or that I was dying?”

Ethan's brow furrows. “Do you really think about yourself that way?”

“I mean...that's what's happening.”

“Your life will be shorter, yeah,” Ethan says. “But that doesn't mean what you're doing right now is dying. You're loving, you're creating. You're living the same as anyone else.”

“Well, not exactly the same,” Justin says, with a small smile. “I take a whole lot of drugs.”

Ethan's smile is bigger, shyer. “Maybe not.”

“Anyway, either way I don't remember finding out,” Justin says. “It just feels like something I've always known.”

Ethan nods wisely. “Like the Holocaust.”

Justin chokes on his mocha, which of course turns into a coughing fit. Ethan reaches across the table and takes his hand, and Justin finds himself squeezing it. 

“Um, sorry,” Justin says, when he can speak. “Did you just compare me to the Holocaust?”

Ethan laughs a little. “One time my friends were talking about when they learned about the Holocaust, how old they were, what grade they were in. And I realized I had no idea. I'm Jewish. I have no memory of learning about it. It's like I was born knowing.”

“You know they say trauma like that is passed on,” Justin says. “Like it literally changes your genes.”

Ethan nods, watching him, and Justin blushes.

“For obvious reasons I'm kind of interested in genetic stuff,” Justin says.

“Any of your art about that?”

“Yeah, some of it.”

“I'd love to see more,” Ethan says. “I bet you're incredible.”

“Why?”

“Well, I've seen your sketches of me,” Ethan says, and Justin laughs. “And also you just have this perspective that most people don't have. You've seen things. People our age...they aren't where you are.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Ethan watches him. “What does it feel like?”

He has been asked this before. “I don't know,” he says. “What does it feel like not to have it?”

Ethan nods a little. “Good question. People should be more aware of that. The absence of things. Of people.”

His fingers are still so, so close to Justin's.

“I hope someone's taking really good care of you,” Ethan says.

**

Justin makes dinner that evening. He sets it up on the floor and pours wine and lights candles. Brian comes back from the office and looks at it with a little laugh. “What the fuck is all this?” he says.

Justin shrugs. “Just thought I'd do something nice.”

“You want to do something nice?” Brian takes Justin's hand and pulls him up, kisses him. “Fuck me before we leave for Babylon.”

“Do we have to go to Babylon tonight?”

“We do,” Brian says. “Had a fucking bullshit headache of a day, need to go out. You know that guy you've been eyeing for two weeks? You're going to fuck him tonight. I feel it.”

“I don't want to fuck him tonight,” Justin says. “I want to stay in.” He catches Brian's wrist. “Come on, you had a hard day. I'll rub your shoulders, there's wine...”

“You're sweet.” Brian gives him a quick, firm kiss. “But I'm going out.”

“I made this whole dinner.”

“Wrap it up, it'll keep.” Brian takes the steps up to the bedroom. “Hurry up, though, I want to leave soon.”

“Brian.”

Brian turns around. “God, what?” 

“I don't want to go out. I'm not feeling great.”

Brian beckons Justin up, then tugs him in and gives him a hug that rocks him back and forth. “Then stay here,” he says softly.

If he'd just said _home_ instead of _here._

It would have made such a difference.

**

Brian comes into the diner one lunchtime when Justin's working and says, “I have a strange proposition for you.”

“That's pretty foreboding, considering some of the other things you've proposed in the past.”

“Ha, ha. Do you want to come to Chicago?”

“Chicago?”

“Yeah, it's a city in Illinois. Big lake. Plenty of murder.”

“Why would we go to Chicago?”

“I have to go anyway,” Brian says. “Business thing for the new boss. Thought maybe you'd want to come along. Go out for pizza, maybe see a show or something.”

Brian knows he's been distant since Ben got sick, maybe even before. That's what this is, and it makes Justin feel warm, despite the fact that he doesn't really like Chicago.

“When is it?” Justin says.

“Next week. Wednesday to Saturday.”

“I have my tune-up next week,” Justin says. 

“Already?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Brian shrugs. “Oh well.”

“So you're just not gonna be around?”

“I have to go on this trip. It's not like you need me to weep at your bedside. It's a tune-up.”

“I know what it is.” And Brian's right. Last time they texted the whole time Justin was in the hospital, and Brian stopped by after work most days to fuck him in the shower and watch a TV show or something, but it's not like he was sleeping over and keeping him from getting scared like he did when Justin was really sick. It's hard to imagine him doing any of those things now, really. Stuff has just...changed. 

Brian finishes his coffee and leaves Justin a gigantic tip. “Too bad,” he says. “Coulda been fun.”

**

Justin keeps thinking about the empty loft when he's in the hospital. No him, no Brian. He wonders if the loft would miss him, if it could think, or if it would only care about Brian. If the loft feels like he belongs there. Then he decides assigning feelings to a glorified room is probably a sign of insanity and he should nip it in the bud. 

The tune-up is, as always, boring, and his mom comes to visit a few times but everyone else knows he's just there on business and doesn't bother. 

Except Ethan.

He texts one day asking if Justin wants to go to this other student's art show with him, and Justin mentions he's in the hospital right now and emphasizes that he's fine, but nevertheless, Ethan skips the art show and drops by to visit instead. “I asked the nurses if I could play something for you, but they shunned me,” he says.

Justin laughs. “That's too bad. Would have been nice.” He's listened to all the CDs he bought about a thousand times. “You really didn't have to come.”

“No one should be alone in the hospital,” Ethan says. “Where's your boyfriend?”

“Chicago. Business trip.”

“The hazards of dating up.”

“Yeah.” Justin sighs and coughs a little. “Honestly I'm not sure he'd be hanging around even if he were here. We're kind of having some problems.”

“Oh yeah?”

“We just keep....missing each other.” He doesn't know how else to describe it. “I'll say something and he'll say the wrong thing, or he'll say something and I'll realize an hour later what I should have said back.” The sex is still great but God, God, Justin misses the talking. 

“That's no good.”

“Yeah. It's not.” Justin takes a deep breath and mindlessly rearranges the papers in his lap, just to do something.

“What are those?” Ethan says.

“Oh, they're um...” He beckons Ethan over to the bed. “Newspaper articles and stuff. About that boy who died on Liberty Avenue.”

“God, I remember that,” Ethan says. “That was horrible.”

“My boss at the diner, she actually found out his name,” Justin says. “And she...” he shakes his head. “It's stupid.”

“What?”

“She found him because he has asthma. Had asthma. She tracked him down with the prescription. It's all just a little too eerie, I guess.” He shows Ethan a picture of Jason. “My age, breathing problems, dead. I know it's not about me.”

“It's okay for something to be about you,” Ethan says.

“I just hate that it happened. And I hate that he was alone.”

Ethan sits on the foot of the bed. “You know that could never happen to you. Too many people care about you. Your mom. Your sister. Your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend will probably be out fucking someone else and get a text telling him I've croaked,” Justin says, with bitterness he doesn't anticipate. 

“Ah, the magic of non-monogamy.”

Justin raises his eyebrows. “You're monogamous?”

“Well, right now I'm not anything, but when I'm in a relationship, yeah. No judgment to how anyone else does it, but... when I'm in a relationship, I think it should be all about us. About him.” 

Justin swallows.

“But you're not monogamous,” Ethan says.

“No.”

“So it's okay if I do this,” Ethan says, and he leans in and kisses him.

Justin laughs a little. “What was that for?”

“You feel things. You've seen things. You're sitting here in a hospital room alone and you care about a boy you never met.”

“I'm not alone,” Justin says. And he kisses him again. 

**

Justin's not doing anything wrong, but he feels like he is.

He and Brian have never established any rules, promised each other anything, labeled whatever the thing is they're doing. They live together and have a lot of sex and Justin is deeply in love with him and Brian...feels something for Justin that he won't or can't articulate, and Justin is so tired of feeling like a house guest wherever he goes. His father's house where he wasn't wanted. His mother's condo with the chair on the steps. Debbie's house. And the loft.

Brian has never called it Justin's home. He told Justin he was only staying there until he got well. And whatever that meant, it's passed. Justin can do the stairs at his mother's condo now. He works, he goes to school. He has an affair. 

Justin doesn't feel at home with Ethan, but he does feel _something,_ and that's such a relief after feeling nothing but confused for the past few months with Brian. 

“Don't go,” Ethan says, stretching out of the bed when Justin stands up, dragging his fingers on Justin's back, lingering.

“I have work,” Justin says with a laugh.

Ethan props himself up on an elbow and watches Justin get dressed. “Could call in sick.”

“Debbie would check on me. She worries.”

“I worry,” Ethan says, tugging Justin over. Justin lets himself be pulled, leans down and kisses Ethan, softly.

“Got responsibilities,” Justin says. “People expecting things from me. It's awful.”

“That is awful,” Ethan says. “They should be honored to have you.”

Justin laughs a little.

Ethan touches his cheek. “You should feel wanted,” he says, and Justin stops laughing.

**

Ethan has Justin teach him how to set up the nebulizer, how to hit his back, what to do in case of an emergency. He asks Justin every day how he's feeling and if he needs anything. 

Justin sees less and less of Brian. Brian's company is still shaky after the big buy-out, and Brian's partner now and putting in a ton of hours, and Justin's spending more and more time with Ethan. 

Brian obviously knows something's up. “Who are you with?” he asks at one point, when they're in bed together, Brian's lips against his back. 

“It doesn't matter,” Justin says, and truthfully, it doesn't. Ethan's amazing, but the things Justin's realizing about Brian, his life, what he deserves, aren't about Ethan. They're about Justin, and they're about Brian. Ethan's just the catalyst, making the reaction happen quicker.

If Brian realizes he's losing him, he decides not to fucking _do_ anything about it, and isn't that just the problem right there? He doesn't question Justin when he leaves the house and comes back late. He fucks him like normal and eats the food Justin cooks. He doesn't ask how he's feeling every day and if he needs anything.

Justin starts looking at apartment listings.

“I can't afford anything,” he complains to Ethan. “Between what I make at the diner and what I pay for school, I have net savings of approximately negative four dollars.”

“Move in with me,” Ethan says, not for the first time.

“I don't just want to be another guest in someone else's house,” Justin says, again not for the first time. “I want somewhere where I don't feel like I'm tiptoeing around.”

“Be loud,” Ethan says. “Be whatever. You're welcome here.”

“You're sweet,” Justin says. “But I need a home. It's been so goddamn long.”

**

He's not planning to discuss it with Brian until he has a plan, but one morning Brian catches him on an apartment hunting website and well, that's that, then. 

Brian goes over to the fridge and takes out some guava juice. He loves it. It gives Justin hives. “Those for Daphne?” he asks. 

“Not exactly.”

Brian raises an eyebrow while he pours the juice.

“I'm thinking of moving out,” Justin says.

Brian puts the carton down, slowly.

“I just think maybe it's time.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Brian says.

Justin squirms. “You said I could stay here until I was better. And now I'm about as healthy as I get. It just seems like the time.”

Brian just stares at him. 

“I haven't found anywhere I can afford yet,” Justin says. “But if you want, I can just move in with my mom until I find something.” He twists his hands in his lap. 

“Um.” Brian shakes his head and picks the juice back up, realizes he's already poured it, puts it down again. “Whatever you want to do.”

“Okay.”

They're quiet for a long time while Justin clicks aimlessly around the website, trying to keep his breathing steady, and Brian makes breakfast. Eventually, Brian says, “So just so we're clear, this is about this guy you've been seeing, right? Whoever the fuck he is?”

“His name's Ethan,” Justin says quietly.

“Okay?”

“He...this sounds so fucking pathetic. He wants to take care of me. He likes doing it. It's not like...an obligation.”

Brian looks at him for a long time, then away.

“I think I need that right now,” Justin says.

“When you just said you were healthy.”

“That's not what healthy means for me and you know it.” He lowers his voice. “Or maybe you don't.”

Brian crosses the room and pulls Justin into his arms. Justin rests his hand on Brian's back and Brian holds him very, very tightly. Justin feels Brian's heartbeat against him, fast and light, and something inside of him breaks.

He's _hurting_ Brian.

He honestly wasn't expecting Brian to care if he left.

And then, of course, Brian says, “I'm not going to beg you to stay,” and lets him go.

Because God forbid Brian Kinney compromise Brian Kinney, for one second, for anything. 

“I didn't expect you to,” Justin says.

**

He sits on Ethan's couch with his head in his hands. “It was fucking awful. The look on his face when I told him I was thinking about moving out. It was like he was like...fucking witnessing a car wreck. He was _shocked._ ”

Ethan puts his arm around him. “At least it's over now.”

“It's not over. I _hurt_ him. He's in that apartment right now hurting, because of me.” 

“His feelings are not your responsibility,” Ethan says.

What? 

What the fuck?

“I love him,” Justin says. “Regardless of whether I want to live with him, regardless of whether we make any sense together doing whatever the fuck it is we're doing. I love him so, so much. You know that, right? Of course I care about how he feels. I can't...I can't not do that.” 

“Then what are we even doing here?” Ethan says. “What are we working towards?”

“What?”

“I told you how I am in a relationship,” Ethan says. “And what I want from you doesn't have room in it for Brian.”

Justin sighs. “I know that. And I'm not saying Brian's in our fucking bedroom, I'm just—” 

“He's just in your heart.”

“I'm not a robot, Ethan! I can't just turn love on and off like a light switch.”

Ethan softens. “Of course you can't. I'm sorry. We'll take it slow.” 

“I don't think there's ever going to be a time when I don't love him,” Justin says. “No matter how long we take.”

Justin has the awareness to know that no matter what happens, Brian is, in some way or another, always going to be a part of his life, even if just as a memory. You don't go through the kind of things they've gone through together and just let each other go, even if you want to. It's not possible. Brian is entwined with coming out, with making love, with getting sick. Those aren't parts of himself Justin's about to let go. 

But Ethan pulls back like he's been stung. 

“Which of us do you want?” Ethan says.

“In a relationship? You. You know that.”

“Which of us do you want _period._ ”

Well. That's a lot more complicated.

And the pause is enough. Ethan stands up. “I think you should go.” 

“Ethan.”

“I've told you that I want you. That I want every part of you. That I want to be the one who takes care of you. And it's not enough. So I think you should go.” He picks up his violin and turns away from Justin, and Justin only manages to get in a few weak protests before Ethan cuts him off.

Justin stays out as late as he possibly can and, in a rare feat, makes it back to the loft after Brian's already in bed. Justin stops in the middle of the floor and takes his shoes off with a sigh. His meds and his vest are up in the bedroom, but he doesn't feel like he can go up there, not anymore. He'll just do his treatment in the morning.

He lays down on the couch and pulls the blanket over himself, but a few minutes after he closes his eyes, Brian says, “Justin.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop being a twat and come to bed.”

**

The Rage party is two days later.

Babylon's full of people in masks and superhero costumes, ready to hear the story of the superhero who saved the boy who was drowning. 

And Justin's still looking at apartments, and he just hates himself in this everyday, annoying sort of way. 

Brian doesn't know Ethan threw him out, or maybe he does, since he seems to know everything, and just correctly deduces that that has no effect on whether or not Justin's leaving, so he's bratty and sarcastic all night, throwing down drinks and hitting on the actor playing Rage, because when is Brian Kinney not fucking himself. Justin decides he'll follow at least half the model and gets fucking smashed, to the point that Daphne threatens to bring him home before the night's even fully begun.

And then Ethan is there.

“I thought you threw me out,” Justin says, which makes more sense in his head, considering they're currently in a public place.

“There's something I need to say to you,” Ethan says.

Justin knows Brian's watching and is about to see him get thoroughly, brutally dumped. Whatever. “Go ahead.”

But Ethan says, “You should choose me.”

Justin tries to catch his breath.

“I will make you feel so wanted,” he says. “You'll never be a burden or a complication. You want a home? I can give you a home, and I know it's not much but it has heat and home-cooked meals and somebody who loves you. And you won't be a guest there. It'll be yours. I'll be yours. And I'm going to be there for you if you get sick. I'm going to be there for you when you're better to keep you from getting sick again. I'll take care of you. We'll figure out the rest. Just come with me.”

There is nothing, literally nothing, that Justin wouldn't do to hear those words come out of Brian's mouth. 

But they haven't. And they won't. They never will.

But they're here, and they're really happening. From someone else. And it's all he's ever wanted. 

So what is he supposed to do? 

What is he waiting for?

He kisses Ethan, glances back at Brian and the small smile on his lips, and goes with Ethan.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm now on Twitter! Please consider giving me a follow and seeing updates on my writing and other ways to support me! https://twitter.com/LaVieEnRoseFic


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